Heated Rivalry (Game Changers #2)(45)

“Sorry,” Rozanov said again when he sat back on the couch. “My father.”

“Oh.” And Shane knew he should ask whether or not everything was okay at home or something, but he was now consumed by one thought:

No one makes me feel like Ilya Rozanov does.

And because the terror Shane was feeling was probably all over his face, Rozanov was the one who asked, “Is everything okay?”

“What? Yeah. Of course. Um...is your dad all right?”

“Yes,” Rozanov said, a little too quickly and dismissively. “Fine.”

“Is he—?”

“You’re not eating,” Rozanov said, gesturing toward the mostly untouched plate of food on the coffee table in front of Shane.

“Sorry. It’s good. I was just, um...distracted by the game.”

Rozanov nodded. They went back to watching the game and this time Shane made sure to eat his food. He kept stealing glances at Rozanov while he ate, as if seeing him for the first time.

Oh god. What the fuck?

The game ended, and the feed switched to a Western Conference game that was in progress. Rozanov cleared their dishes away and, when he came back, wedged himself between Shane and the arm of the couch. He turned slightly and wrapped an arm around Shane, guiding him back to rest against his own chest. Shane was surprised, but he went willingly. Very willingly.

Resting against Rozanov like this, in his home, watching hockey, full of the food he had just made him...this was exactly what they weren’t supposed to be doing. This was what couples did.

But Rozanov’s chest was so warm and solid, and Shane could hear his heart beating where his ear was pressed against it. Rozanov’s fingers were idly playing with his hair, making Shane sleepy and unreasonably happy.

Eventually, Rozanov moved his other hand to slide up Shane’s thigh and cup him through his jeans. He massaged him with one big, skilled hand, and Shane’s cock quickly responded. When the bulge threatened to rip through the denim, Rozanov flicked open the button on his fly and carefully pulled down the zipper. Shane hadn’t bothered putting his briefs on again, so his cock popped out, and Rozanov started lazily stroking it at a frustrating pace.

Shane squirmed against Rozanov, even thrusting his hips a bit to try to get him to pick up the pace. He rubbed his back against the bulge he could feel in Rozanov’s sweatpants, hoping it would inspire a little more urgency in the other man. Rozanov didn’t take the bait. He was maddeningly gentle and patient, and had even started to press light kisses to Shane’s hair.

Shane wasn’t sure why he was letting Rozanov drive anyway. He flipped himself around and kissed Rozanov hard. At this angle, Shane was taller than him, and he could thread his fingers through Rozanov’s hair, tug his head back, and attack his mouth with as much force as he wanted. His sudden aggression drew a satisfying moan out of Rozanov, and Shane wanted more; he wanted to see how many moans and hisses he could wring from him.

He wedged his knee into the tight space between the back of the couch and Rozanov’s hip, and pressed himself down onto Rozanov’s lap. He squeezed him with his thighs, holding Rozanov in place as he ground his cock against Rozanov’s stomach.

“Why do I need this so much?” Shane muttered the words against Rozanov’s lips, and hoped the other man hadn’t heard them.

“Need what?” Rozanov asked, as if he didn’t know.

Shane didn’t answer. Instead, he raised his hips so he could haul down Rozanov’s waistband and pull his cock out.

“Fuck, Hollander.”

Rozanov’s head fell back on the arm of the couch, and Shane took the opportunity to kiss and lick and bite his neck. Then he took both of their cocks in his hand and started stroking them.

“Yes. Do that,” Rozanov moaned.

It was dry, and a little rough, but it was exactly what Shane wanted. Rozanov bucked up into his hand, and Shane knew it was what he wanted too. He brought their mouths back together and kissed Rozanov wildly.

“Wait.” Rozanov grabbed Shane’s wrist and stopped his furious stroking. He pulled Shane’s hand to his face and spit in his hand. Which was gross. But instead of making a face or bitching at him about it, Shane found it absurdly arousing.

The saliva didn’t add a ton of lubrication, but by then Shane’s cock was leaking enough to make up for it. He stroked faster, with his forehead resting on Rozanov’s shoulder. Shane was very close, and judging by the way Rozanov was thrusting his hips and babbling in Russian, he wasn’t far behind.

“You like that?” he growled. “You gonna come for me, Rozanov?”

“Fucking make me, Hollander.”

Shane gasped, and his stroking became frantic and sloppy and he was so close...

“Come on,” he gritted out.

Then Rozanov went very still and said, “Oh god. Shane...” and he came in hot bursts, coating Shane’s hand and allowing Shane to use the slickness to bring himself off almost immediately, with the sound of his first name being spoken in a breathless Russian accent still ringing in his ears.

They held each other, both breathing heavily as they waited for their hearts to stop racing. But Shane didn’t think his heart would ever stop racing.

Shane. He called me Shane.

He pulled back so he could see Rozanov’s face, and was shocked to see him staring at him with the same wide-eyed terror that Shane felt.